


A Dance with the Devil

by MrsRobot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Kidnapping, Mental Instability, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:44:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRobot/pseuds/MrsRobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One reckless decision and Hermione is forcefully plucked away from the tedious task of hunting horcruxes. Tucked in a room with no exit, Lucius Malfoy is the only one with access. No innocent intentions bubble in his mind; there is only one thought swirling around - he must break the Mudblood, no matter what happens along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watch Them Feed

**Author's Note:**

> I sure love torturing Hermione and dragging her through figurative and literal broken glass but she's such a fascinating character that I really just can't not do it. Apologies for the excessive use of italics in the first few chapters, but I find them necessary when trying to express a certain reaction/feeling in writing, especially when we're seeing the story through a character's head. Please be aware that when we're dealing with an unstable character who retells the story, we often get unreliable narration. Thanks for reading; please bookmark and comment (please, please)! Much love, MrsRobot.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own none of the characters and receive no profit from this work.

**Chapter 1**  –  **Watch Them Feed**

(In Flames, 2003,  _Trigger EP_ )

She doesn't know what makes her do it but she can't help herself. Life's been too stressful, that's it! It's all just so complicated and she's just so exhausted from looking and thinking and moving all the goddamn time. And, damn it, she's so hungry that it hurts just to think of it. Food, she must get food – not for herself only, oh, no! She must think of Harry and Ron as well!

She hopes to be back in their  _stupidgoddamnugly_  tent (she's getting tired of the damn thing) before they notice she has gone. But it's only just for food, nothing else! She's thinking of their well-being, of their sustenance. Thinking – she's tired of thinking all the goddamn time. She can't admit it though, not now and not tomorrow. They, Harry and Ron, and who knows, the whole nation of England for all she cares, depend on her wits and fast-thinking. Oh, if only she had turned out dumb she wouldn't have to deal with all of this  _goddamnstupidridiculous_  horcrux business. Damn the  _uglymutilatedtwisted_  reptilian monster that is Voldemort; damn him and his  _stupidracistinbred_  followers.

But she can't give up – no! – what in Merlin's name is she thinking?! God, Hermione, get it together for Merlin's sake! She must be strong for her friends; they must feed off from each other and she knows fully well that her burden is nothing compared to what Harry must go through every day. But she is just  _so_  hungry! Surely, she deserves some minutes off – a time-out of sorts – to clear her mind, to gain some strength and brain-power back, to just be alone for a few moments.

Apparating is easy now – well, easier than before anyway. She finds that collecting her mind and focusing it on one location isn't as straining as it once was. It's fluid, it's natural, it's magic. It doesn't require as much preparation and the exhaustion is but temporary. It is certainly useful wizardry; one that saves much time and effort – it is in great luck that she learned it before leaving Hogwarts.

A grocery store – no,  _the_  grocery store is more like it – it's by habit that she ends up here; she's walked through those automatic doors so many times that its entrance is forever imprinted in her vast mind-space. Treading so close to home is dangerous, she  _knows_ , she knows, but dash it, they have her favorite toffees. They are just so well-made and she has consumed so many of them that they forever remind her of a pre-Hogwarts life. Another time, another era – she is not where she once thought she would be at this stage of her life. Fighting a war had never been part of the plan.

Oh,  _Heavens_ , there is just so much food around her that she can barely contain herself not to rip open the generic sandwich she's just picked up. But, forget it, she opens her box of  _special_  toffees and quickly puts two in her mouth. It doesn't matter; she'll be paying for them either way!  _Merlin_ , they taste like paradise. After all this time and all this (unwilling) starvation, toffees still make her senses tingle. What is she thinking?! Starvation is taking a toll on her brain – get the food, pay, get out, apparate back to the forest. It's simple. Oh, but there are her favorite crisps over there on that shelf – she must get that too, surely!

By the time she's finished paying, Hermione knows she has taken too long. Mouth full of toffees and hands full of plastic bags overloaded with food, she hastily exits the well-lit and air-conditioned store. Outside, it's dark and eerily quiet. Quiet doesn't sit well with her anymore and the dark is even scarier. No, no, she's just paranoid. It's all just in her mind. Surely, no one would think to look for her here. Surely, she hasn't been gone for  _that_ long. It hasn't even been a full thirty minutes. It's alright; it's gonna be okay – she just has to get back to the forest.

She sets her mind to the forest, she focuses on that tree she marked earlier (to distinguish all the forests from each other), she clears her mind. But, oh, someone has grabbed her arm – someone strong with leathery fingers. Oh no, oh no,  _ohnoohnoshehasmesseditallupohnofuck_. The air is being squeezed out of her and her brain wants to escape from her head – she is apparating. But –  _impossible_! – she hadn't even finished preparing. No, no, this person is taking her somewhere else, not where she wanted to go (thank God) – is that good? She must find out who this is, she must –

She's thrust onto the ground, a  _stonyslimymuddydirty_  ground. The grocery bags are on the floor, some of the contents peeking out, some even deserting the shiny plastic bags. Her arm is throbbing from the steel grasp that had kept her in place. Who would –

Lucius Malfoy stands before her, above her, looking down upon her with the nastiest look on his face and her wand in his gloved hand. But as his eyes glare holes into her body, his mouth inarguably transforms into a dirty smirk – a smirk of unexpected triumph. She's done now – she has screwed up.  _What_ was she thinking?!  _Stupidstupidstupid_! She prays in her mind, to whoever might be listening, that Harry and Ron are okay – that they haven't been captured. Captured! She's so  _stupid_ ; she only sees it now – she risked it all for some  _stupid_  toffees! Fuck, he'll kill her – she hasn't even said goodbye to her friends – to anyone! She –

" _Mudblood_ , we meet again. I cannot say it is a pleasure."

"You! What right do  _you_ have to grab me and just take me? You ignorant –" She's screaming, she should control herself around people like him. She should be careful.

_Smack._ It hurts, it hurts, it  _hurts_! His cane, his elegant and sophisticated cane, leaves a red mark on her upper arm where it touched her so ungracefully.

"You will speak with respect to your betters,  _girl._ " She swallows that one – she doesn't want to be hit again, not with that thing anyway. She hates him, she always has, really, but now she feels it running through her veins – hatred.

"Why have you taken me? Where have you brought me?" She tries to get up but he doesn't let her – cane firmly placed on her shoulder, keeping her on the ground. She yearns to grab the goddamn stick and split it in two but she knows she has no power without her wand.

"I will be the one asking the questions,  _girl._ " He stares at her with such contempt that she backs away from him.  _Gods_ , why is she such a weakling? She hates herself then too but glares at him either way. He will not break her, he will not! She doesn't know where she is and she doesn't know who else is here but, damn it, she won't help them with her valuable information ( _fine_ , she knows perfectly fine why he has taken her), she won't let a single truth escape her lips!

She watches him as he stores the looted wand somewhere in his robes and cries internally. It is hers! It should be in her hand, not hidden in his clothes. She watches as he uses his own to vanish all of the groceries she has paid for (the bastard!), only leaving the half-empty box of toffees on the ground, somewhere in front of her. She watches as he straightens up and puts some stray lock of perfectly styled hair behind his ear.

"Enjoy those while you can,  _Mudblood._ I'll be back for you some time or another; maybe I'll forget, who knows?" His laugh is cruel, merciless and detached.

She screams furiously and throws herself at him but before she can take him down, before she can even touch him, he has disappeared. She tries it too – she does! – but it doesn't work, apparating, no matter how hard she focuses her mind. She curses, she screams, she paces the confines of her prison, she punches the walls only to regret it after, she eats her toffees and most of all, she cries for her stupidity.

If only she had the time-turner now. If only she could do wand-less magic. If only but if-only doesn't change the situation. Hermione drifts off to sleep in some wretched corner with sugar in her throat, back against the grimy stone wall and a bruise springing up on her fair skin. It is only the first of many.


	2. Delight and Angers

**Chapter 2 – Delight and Angers**

(In Flames, 2008,  _A Sense of Purpose_ )

Hungry, she is just so,  _so_ hungry. How long has she been in this godforsaken chamber? She wants to get out, she wants to see the sky if for a minute, she wants to breathe in clear air – not the putrid stink her nose is getting used to, mixed with wafts of her waste and whatever else has perished in here.  _Ohgodohmygod_ , she's going to die in this  _disgusting_ cell. No,  _no_ , she mustn't lose hope! They'll come for her, she  _knows_  that they will come and take her away, one of these days, or the other. She retreats in her favorite corner, smacks down on the ground, and starts recalling every spell that she has ever learned – to keep her mind sharp and leave the incantations on the tip of her tongue, if she has a chance to use them. Merlin, why isn't wand-less magic easier? She has tried and tried again, and she has failed time and time again.

_He_ hasn't returned – maybe he has forgotten about her, just like he said he would but she doubts it. In fact, she is sure that this is some sort of torture he has plotted out in his  _twistedfuckedup_  mind. She contemplates on it – leave her for a certain prolonged amount of time without food, care,  _anything_ and she'll be easier to break later on. Yes, yes, she can figure out the old bastard. She must keep a clear mind and remain rational, or he'll have an excuse to hurt her. But as hunger passes through her, this time so different from the last, she slips into dangerous territory – she thinks of asking him for food.  _The enemy_! – she will never ask someone as fucked up as him for  _anything_! Her stomach hasn't stopped rumbling for who knows how long and she grips it for dear life, wishing that someone would come and rescue her at last.  _Don't bet on it, Hermione._

Her eyes close from the lack of energy and food – her brain has nothing to feed on, nothing to keep her going. At some point in this delirious state of mind, she hears – no – she feels a very distinguishable 'pop' and jolts up absent-mindedly. When she doesn't see anyone, she slumps into some sad shape again and tries to force herself to sleep; only it never works out when she wants it to.

After what feels like a minute, or maybe an hour, she doesn't know, Hermione starts to wake up from all of the commotion happening around her. People?  _Here_?! She cracks an eyelid open and she could swear she feels all of her blood freeze in place and her heart cease beating for a few distinguished seconds. They are here!  _Ohgodohgodfuck_ , she tries to back into the wall, she tries to disappear, but  _of course_ it does not work. They aren't even paying attention to her, just talking amongst themselves, as if the situation is some  _sick_ get-together between old acquaintances. Only one person is looking at her and it is ironically the one she hates the most – Lucius Malfoy.  _Him_  and his  _fuckedupstupid_ gang of Death Eaters. She almost laughs at the notion of the lot of them going around the streets and spray-painting walls together, posing as a muggle gang. It is but a moment's distraction and her lips move skyward only by a millimeter, yet he notices. His voice is booming, though controlled to the last octave.

"The  _Mudblood_  seems to find us amusing." Silence; they have all stopped talking and are finally looking at her. She stands out like a sunflower in a field of roses – she doesn't belong with them, between them. She is only their plaything, a bucket of resourceful information, a path to their ultimate villain – her best friend. She must protect him, she  _must_! No matter what they do to her, she must be made of steel and not crack beneath their hands.

But there are so many of them – Lestrange, Malfoy, Nott, Macn–  _fucktheyareallhere_! She doesn't know them all but they all seem to know her well. She is shivering, what will they do to her? She imagines her severed head on a crude spike, being marched onto Hogwarts grounds, maggots in her eyes–

_He_ stands out from the  _twistedfuckedup_ crowd too. His hair blond, his eyes grey, his features so dainty and proportionate that she wonders how such a beautiful creature can be such a monster. He is like the Devil – a fallen angel – someone that should have been good and mighty but fell down the wrong path. His spectacular beauty tainted so cruelly by the evil lurking on the inside – evil fueled by spite for someone like her. It saddens her greatly.  _Get it together, Hermione_!

The next minute, hour, day, however long they are in her vicinity contains the worst pain that has flowed through her body. It hurts, it hurts,  _it hurts_! By the time they are done, her confidence is gone, her spirit tamed, her body painted in all sorts of colours. But she hasn't broken!  _Never-ever_ will she give them information that will aid them against her friends. She is not weak, she is a Gryffindor! If only that mattered in this  _disgusting_ excuse of a cell. They have all had their turn on her – used their meanest and vilest curses on her, but she hasn't succumbed;  _bastards_! When they all pop-out, one by one, she starts breathing again. She knows they will be back, she knows they won't leave her be until she has given them what they want or when her heart is no longer beating.

Of course,  _he_  stays behind, wanting the satisfaction of having the last word with her. He glares at her for what feels like an eternity – that wretched human being! She isn't even sure that he is a human; how can someone do this? How can someone be as cruel as he is to her? Again, she wishes to vanish through the wall, to escape his piercingly cold gaze and rest for a lifetime but she never gets her wish. Luck is not on her side.

"Tell me where Potter and Weasley are,  _Mudblood_." His voice is not raised but it is demanding. She is on the verge of rolling her eyes – not this  _again_!

"Don't you get it,  _Lucius Malfoy_ , I am  _not_  going to tell you –  _ever_!"

" _Crucio_ " He must really mean it because the curse hits her so hard that she is knocked forward and onto her face. It's splitting her body in two!  _Ohgodohgodohgod_ , it hurts, it hurts,  _it hurts_! She's screaming and screaming, and screaming, and still he doesn't lift it. When  _finallyfuckhell_  he does release her and she plummets painfully on the floor, Hermione is sure that the twitch in her right hand is to stay with her forever from then on. It is a gift from Lucius Malfoy, along with the countless scars already lining her body, scars that will never fade from the skin or the mind.

"You are repulsive, look at yourself,  _girl_! Your  _muggle_ clothing is worth nothing – it has been but a few days and it is already dangling off you. You are in great need of a proper wash too – the stink emanating from your person is nauseating. And yet, you do not break. Aren't you hungry,  _girl_?"

"Yes" She stutters and splutters, and shivers through it but she has to tell him. She  _has_  to eat something.

The smirk that overtakes his face is that of utter triumph, not dissimilar to the one that she had seen after he had captured her. He takes two leaps forward but hesitates to get any closer to her. It must be the stink! Or it must be her  _horrid_  choice of blood. Ha!  _Bastard_.

"Then tell me,  _Miss Granger_ , where exactly are Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley?" The use of her name surprises her for half-a-second before she spits out her answer in his general direction.

" _I don't know_ , and even if I did,  _you_ would be the last person I would tell." He takes a timid step back, his demeanor falling apart (if she hadn't been observing him for a long time, she wouldn't have noticed the slight change). He must not be used to being defied, or not getting what he wants. She feels proud of the thought – that  _she_ would be the one that doesn't bend over to a Death Eater's will. Her stomach rumbles yet again, and this time it is loud.

"Very well. I will be back tomorrow – think over our questions and make sure you come up with the answers,  _girl_." With that said, he apparates out of the cell and goes who-knows-where, and she is left alone. Only this time when he vanishes, a small tray appears where he was standing. She scratches and claws, and crawls her way to it. The three sandwiches she purchased on that  _godforsakenstupid_ day are between her fingers now. The bread is stale and the ingredients are no longer fresh but she swears this is the most delicious meal she has ever eaten. She does not ration her portion because once she starts, she cannot stop chewing. Merlin, she was  _so_  fucking hungry!

When she is finished, she laughs at him – giving her the sandwiches she purchased on her own, how  _pathetic_! She is sure, with the wealth he possesses, that he can accommodate something else for his prisoner, something more refined. Evidently, his hate for her is so strong that he must resort to giving her the  _muggle_ food she bought by herself. Thoughts humiliating and belittling him swirl in her mind, as her body yearns for rest after all of the digestion she has forced upon it. She lies on the floor, where there is a small pile of straw and a faint warm draft, and closes her eyes. A faint smile locks itself on her lips. Food is all she needs to keep going.  _Food_!

That night she dreams for the first time since her capture. That night she dreams of famous Bulgarian Quidditch players and jealous Weasleys; that night she almost forgets where she is and what has become of her. It is the first of many.


	3. Filtered Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it! xxMrsRobot

**Chapter 3 – Filtered Truth**

(In Flames, 2014,  _Siren Charms_ )

After the first, every day of torture is worse – it always is. The curses they gift her with are meaner, stronger and more desperate every single time. Her wounds never get better, only new ones appear on top of them and she is one leap closer to annihilation. And yet, she does not break. It is the one thing she has escaped from – her saving grace.

Hermione can't help but wonder – what  _has_  happened to Harry and Ron? She does not know exactly how long she has been in this  _godforsakenshithole_ , but it must have been more than a week (for sure). She knows, she  _knows_ , that her friends have not been captured or she would not be breathing (putrid stink with a waft of oxygen) this very second. Voldemort and his  _arselickers_ must really need some telling information, with their reluctance to fully destroy her.

She can no longer stand up, or lift her hands for that matter. She is just so weak now. But it is not her fault! She cannot heal herself without a wand and no one from her tormentors has volunteered to do it for her (she would bet that they would kill her before thoughts of  _helping her_ cross their minds). With this newfound weakness of theirs, she finds it easier to deal with the pain, easier to think through it, easier to not let it take her with it. She likes thinking, she always has. And the pain, it does not mean much anymore – her body has gotten used to it – in a way, it has given up on defending itself from the constant intrusion. She is in peace with it now, this daily dosage of torment, and so she lets it take her.

"Enough" The voice is quiet but it reaches every nook and cranny.  _Cruciatus_ leaves her body and she drops pathetically to the ground, as she has countless times already. She hears wails of protest regarding this new release;  _she_  really hates her! Lestrange, Bellatrix Lestrange – her cruelest tormentor, the one who visibly enjoys torturing Hermione until she is at the brink of insanity. But she is saved by the worst of them all – Lucius Malfoy, the sole reason why she is under their claws.

Lucius Malfoy is but a strange man. He likes torturing her, he does! And yet sometimes, she sees the slight regret, the slight delay in the deliverance of a curse – he hesitates. She does not understand – it is his fault – all of it!  _He_  snatched her without a fight,  _he_  threw her in this  _disgusting_ cell,  _he_  encouraged the others to unleash their vilest curses on her person and  _he_  used to throw the strongest ones at her. But with each passing day and with each refusal to supply information, Lucius Malfoy has softened towards her. He is not kind – never – and he does not properly take care of his prisoner but she has already seen the cold demeanor start cracking.

It is a fascinating thing to witness, if only because she has nothing else to accomplish and no one (desirable – a friend, someone her age) to talk with. Of course, the biggest clue of his changing attitude towards her is his use of language. She has noticed, oh,  _she has noticed_  the way he spits out  _Mudblood_ when he is riling himself up to torture her and when he is surrounded by the others. However, when they are alone (and that is not often,  _thank Merlin_ ), he spares her the distasteful language and only refers to her as  _girl_.

_Girl_ , she is  _not_ a girl! Well, maybe in his eyes. She does not think many other  _girls_ have been tortured to oblivion and still refuse to kneel to the enemy. Who tortures girls when–

" _Mudblood_ " Though she is a wreck on the floor, the glare she sends him could rival his own.

"Yes,  _Lucius_?" His perfect jaw clenches at the loose use of his name, yet he does not reprimand her this time. Everyone else around them – Lestrange, Goyle, Macnair, and whatever their  _bloody_ names are – is silent and obediently staying put.

"Are we to understand that you will not willingly supply us with information regarding your  _friends_ in exchange for your freedom,  _Mudblood_?" She has laughter trapped on her lips but she does not let it emerge out of her, for her own protection. He is just  _so_ amusing, with his vile tongue and hateful sneers.

"No, I will  _never_ tell you anything – no matter what you do to me, you  _bastards_!" Bellatrix Lestrange is in front of her in a flash, a meaty present of a slap resounding on her cheek. She is about to draw her wand and Hermione is groaning, preparing herself for the incoming pain.

"Bella, I believe that is enough."

"But – she  _insulted_ us! The _filthy Mudblood_ dared to insult  _us_! I ought to cut her in two and let her bleed to death!"

"I said that is enough, Bella. I have other plans for the  _Mudblood_." The older  _witch_  huffs and puffs, and finally backs away from her. (Other plans?) She hopes to Hell and back that this means food, and not something more vicious. She's had enough of his  _plans._

" _Fine_ "

"Leave, all of you." And they all do, without complaint. It is scary, the way he uses his voice and his words. It is a powerful combination, and it often leaves her fearful when he uses those on her. She hears his footsteps approaching and she tries to back into the wall, only her body no longer seems to work the way she wants it to. When he is in front of her, too close, far too close, she can't help but feel insecure beneath his judgmental gaze. Her clothes are but strands glued to her body, the skin exposed and bloodied, and she is sure that she  _stinks_ (she has not washed since her arrival). He is the exact opposite – an example of what a wizard should look like. His scent (for he is quite close to her) is a welcome change from the usual putrid stink her nose has gotten used to.

She does not know what makes her do it (why does she do anything anymore) but when he spits out a 'take my hand,' she entwines her  _filthy_ fingers with his gloved ones. She is sure he is taking her to some chamber worse than hers (if that is possible) and she hates herself for being vulnerable and wanting to touch him,  _just_ to make sure that he is a human being. His touch is not warm and it is not welcoming – it is only momentary and he lets go of her immediately after her feet touch this new surface below them. How she wishes she could apparate away from him! How easy it was for him!

Before she has time to register what is happening, she feels a warm sensation travel through her body – he is healing her! Words try to form in her mouth but she can't say them. She looks down to her leg, where a deep gash had been infected and had gathered pus, only it is gone now and the blood only remains. She does not know how and she certainly does not know why but he goes through the trouble to close all of her wounds. When he is finally done (Gods, how long has it been), she flexes her fingers and rejoices at the long-lost feeling of them.

The snap of his (now naked) fingers startles her out of her thoughts, and as a house-elf appears with a stony bath-tub behind it, she almost faints from the shock. This cannot be good! The countless possibilities of what he might ask in exchange for this sudden kindness swirl somewhere in her mind. But what if he was just tired from looking at her wallow pathetically on the ground, all blood, sweat and tears? She doubts it, she doubts him. She does not say anything, fearing he might take away the bath-tub and open all of her freshly healed wounds in a fit of rage.

"Wash yourself and get that  _horrid_ stink off you before I come back,  _girl_. The servant will help you." Before she can spit out some long-memorised defense for house-elves, he is all but gone.

When she steps in the smooth tub, the water is scorching hot but she ignores it. She is sure in another life she would have backed away from the pain but now it is almost soothing to the skin. Hermione sits down then and forgets her morals, her beliefs – she lets the house-elf scrub and wash her, for she has no strength left in her fingers to do it herself. Instead, those miniscule fingers tremble and shake,  _Cruciatus_ never truly leaving her body and she hates herself for that breach of defenses.

The tub disappears once she steps out and with it her dried blood, and whatever else had stuck to her filthy body. She looks down at herself, all squeaky clean and polished (all wrong), and the tears appear involuntarily for the scars that have permanently soiled her skin, now visible. Some of them are an angry red, while others are a faded white – they are all  _ugly_. She knows, she remembers, who gave her each one and no matter how many times Lucius Malfoy heals her, the scars will never go away or vacate her mind.

The small house-elf hands her some garment and looks mutely to the ground once more. She wishes she could talk to it and ask it to take her out of wherever this is but someone must have thought that she would do that, so she doesn't. Running her fingers along the navy wizarding robe – of  _course_ they wouldn't give her Muggle clothing, what was she expecting? – it is soft but not silky. She slips it on and squirms at the uncomfortable feeling of not wearing any undergarments. She wonders whether it would be a smart idea to ask Lucius Malfoy for some knickers, though she sees no appropriate occasion on which to bring it up. The image of him browsing for knickers is amusing enough for her to forget about it.

"Miss, you should eat." The voice is quiet and timid but it brings her back to the present. She looks down and sees the big elf eyes staring innocently at her. She softens – it is not its fault; it wasn't the elf's choice to serve monsters.

"Yes, I should." Food materialises before her on the floor and so she collapses down in front of it. She is given soup and some dish with cooked meat and vegetables. There are no complaints when she stuffs them down her throat – it is everything she has wished for – warm and edible. She washes the meal down with the sole glass of water that has been provided and closes her eyes to savor the feeling.  _Delicious_.

When she opens them, everything is gone, including the elf.

She looks around then – finally – she is in some chamber smaller than before. It is warmer and cosier than the previous one and a mattress has been carelessly thrown in one of the corners. On top of it, a thin blanket is folded into a square. Hermione lets out a long breath out – she has not slept properly in quite some time. But all of this, the bath, the food and the mattress – they carry an ominous feeling with them.

She sits weakly on the mattress and waits. Waits, because she knows Lucius Malfoy will be back – he said so, didn't he? She starts shaking again, uncontrollably. She does not like this and she does not like him.  _Merlin_ , why can't she just go home? Why can't  _her side_ already win and free her from this purgatory?

He comes to her a bit later, fifteen or twenty minutes, after she has settled on the mattress. When he apparates into the room, she jolts up at the sudden intrusion, getting up once she notices it is him. The look she sees in his cold eyes, as he scans her now cleansed of all visible filth, is that of well-guarded approval. Yearning to raise her hands over her breasts, she reminds herself that there isn't all that much to hide either way. The robe is thick enough to grant her some semblance of privacy.

"Come" She follows him without protest, to some other corner of the room. Where there had been nothing a second ago, there is now a small table with two chairs on either side and a clear potion in a–

"No! You  _cannot_!" She reels back and looks to run but there is nowhere to go.  _Hermione_ ,  _you stupid_ ,  _stupid girl_.

" _Sit down_. This will be easier on the both of us if you didn't make more problems." The fight goes out of her after some minutes and contemplation, and she looks to the ground, refusing to look up – to accept what it has come to. "Drink it – all of it." She does, without a sound. Maybe it will all be over after this is done, maybe she will be left in peace when he has taken everything from her, every last piece of information she holds dear. She prays, one last time, to whoever might be listening, that Harry and everyone else have thought of this – that everything she knows of their mission and their allies has been rectified, and changed. And so it begins.

Bitterly she thinks to herself that all of her troubles and suffering have been for nothing.  _Sadists_! They could have done this from the beginning and let her go, without all of the farce. Hermione scowls at Lucius Malfoy all throughout their  _lovely interview_ and wishes she could summon a  _fiendfyre_ right here and now, with one victim in mind.

He asks her all the questions she does not want him to and she can't fight it as the answers all spring up, and out of her mouth. At some point, she is surprised how much information she has managed to store inside of her and never spilled even a syllable. But does it matter anymore? She thinks not.  _Damnhimtohellandback_.

Lucius Malfoy is surprised too. She has revealed significant Order intelligence and she  _knows_ he will get praise for this, though none of this is his own work (apart from snatching her). They both know this – he has failed, at his little mission of breaking her, of betraying her friends willingly. She almost cackles at him, but torture is still fresh on her mind and she already has too many scars.

"That will be all then. My work with you is done,  _girl_." Her blood runs cold at his words –  _done_? Some insignificant glimmer of hope shines somewhere inside of her but is stomped out by the other possibilities. What does  _done_ mean, if anything?

"Can I go home then?" He does not speak for a long time, musing over something in his head. The gears turning behind his eyes are vaguely visible to her – he is weighing some unknown options and she is scared to ask what they are.

"I am afraid not,  _Miss Granger_. You will stay here for the time being – the elf will bring you food and will wash you occasionally. Do not make trouble and I will not make any for you. Understood?" She nods the most pathetic of nods and does not look up at him anymore. The confidence is gone and the enemy's eyes scare her now; she no longer wants to decipher them.

"And the  _others_ , will they come for me again?" She stutters through that one.  _The others_ – the other Death Eaters is what she means. Lucius knows that by now, he understands her. In some twisted way, she trusts him more than the rest of Voldemort's minions. Why? – she does not know but in a room full of  _them_ , she seeks solace and balance in his eyes, not any of theirs. Sometimes she is reminded of Draco Malfoy when she gazes upon him and that calms her. Draco Malfoy has never been her friend, not even an acquaintance – just her bully, the immature and spoiled brat of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Yet, the memory of him is familiar and brings her back to older and calmer times. She does not know; Hermione knows naught any longer.

"No, you will be undisturbed. You have no use to the cause any longer – all I needed from you I got. You are useless to us now,  _girl_."

"Then why–"

"Do  _not_ question me,  _girl_. I have decided to keep you in this room – a room far above your status and what you are deserving of – you should be expressing gratitude, not pestering me with petty questions."

"I–" She swallows her apology – she  _will not_ apologise to him!  _Stupiduglybastard_. And he expects gratitude from her – the nerve! "Are we done then? Can I be left alone,  _please_?" He does not answer for a long time – just stares at her person with an absent look. She is not sure he heard her; she is not sure if he even wants to leave but after some time he gets up.

When he apparates from the room, she tries to tell herself, time and time again, that his gaze had not lingered there. She's going insane, slipping from the edge of sanity and going right into the pit of the unknown. Still, when he is gone and only some faint imitation of him remains in her mind, she moves her arm over her breasts – for her own protection.


	4. Move Through Me

**Chapter 4 - Move Through Me**

(In Flames, 2008,  _A Sense of Purpose_ )

The days following are bleak and uneventful. Hermione takes this leisure-filled time to begin mentally healing herself, to start forgetting all that she has gone through. No one comes to her any longer – no one demands information from her by any means necessary. Now only the dreams remain to haunt her when she is unconscious; dreams of writhing on the floor uncontrollably and pissing herself from the unforgiving pain.

Hermione is not sure how long she has spent under the  _protection_ of Lucius Malfoy but it feels as if forever has passed and forgotten her. She does not like admitting it to herself but she's starting to forget what life before her imprisonment was like. Only faint snippets of hunger, cold and fear remind her of who she once had been. But now – now it's all different.

She looks down at herself – she's gained all the weight she had lost on her escapades and days of torture. Her skin is pristine and smells of lavender; the scars clearly visible and rising above the surface. She runs her fingers over the bumps on her left arm, bile rising in her throat at the ruined skin. What will Harry and Ron think? It's hard to admit it to herself but whenever thoughts of them come around, she feels so  _damn_ bitter. Bitter that she's still here – bitter that they haven't rescued her yet. But she can't blame them; she doesn't even know what's been happening since her disappearance.

Life isn't so miserable anymore. Hermione is constantly fed and taken care of by Malfoy's house-elf. Her chamber is warm and there is no grime on the floor. Complaining seems trivial now – there is nothing to complain about (other than the fact that she is confined to a single room). She would never confess– she won't! – but this predicament – staying in one place sits well with her. If only Lucius Malfoy would tell her what is going on – both with her situation and with the war raging through the country. But, on the particular subject, he is silent like a stone, and cold and cutting like unrefined ice.  _Dainty little bastard that he is._

No longer enjoying the pleasures of torturing her into oblivion, Lucius Malfoy has undergone a drastic reversal – he seems to revel in her presence.  _No._ It doesn't sound right, so she doesn't utter it from the lips but her mind is certain. She has a sharp perception, nothing much can pass around her without notice and his changed demeanor is no different. He tries to hide it – really, he does! He tells her over and over again that he only takes his dinner with her to make sure she does not construct some crazed plan of escape. He tries to pretend he is what he once used to be – ruthless and spiteful towards her being – but Hermione catches the stray looks and hungry eyes.

He comes and eats his meals (dinner, she is guessing by the foods in front of them) alongside her in specific intervals. In her mind (probably and most likely), he comes into her chamber on different days. She does not know what they are – time merges into a bottomless pit in this place – but she likes to tell herself that it is when he is left without disturbance from other factors (a beautiful wife, a terrifying master).

It  _scares_ her – this rapid change. She can't do anything about it – she is under his authority. Nonetheless, it is but an empowering feeling – being able to sway even the coldest of hearts. She cannot say anything to him, even hint at the possibility of this new reality, because she knows that he will hurt her for this bravery. He  _hates_ that in her, she can see it – hates that she does not crack under negative pressure and ugly words, and most of all, hates that she does not hesitate to talk back to him. She is only a  _Mudblood_ , after all, and those types of  _scum_ are not meant to be treated with respect they do not deserve, yet she sees that maybe now he is starting to doubt that old thought beaten into his head since a child. If only the Dark Lord could see Lucius Malfoy now – he would be killed without a second thought, she is sure.

She knows he will be coming sometime soon,  _very soon_ , because they follow a specific pattern. Lucius always comes at the same times and Hermione diligently records the elapsed  _minuteshoursdays_ in her mind. It's just something to keep her occupied and alert. She likes doing it.  _Bookwormknowitallsuckup_. It doesn't matter anymore; not in here anyway.

So she sits on her dusty old mattress and waits for the house-elf to bring the food, table and utensils. All by magic, of course – there is no door to this chamber (she would've taken it apart splinter to splinter by now). It would be too easy and life is content with making everything impossible to her.

But this time, the elf never comes and she is left hungry and disdainful at this sudden disturbance of her routine. Instead, Lucius Malfoy comes alone (later than usual, she notes) and paces the length of the room, a detached look behind his eyes.  _He is angry_  – she can see it in his posture (pinched shoulders and a stiffened chest). It concerns her, for her own safety. He'll take it out on her; she shudders at the thought of the incoming pain. Pain – something muddy in her memory, something she used to be immune to. Constant leisure has left her weak and vulnerable to its penetration.

"Your  _little friends_ repel me,  _girl_. They have no consideration for our traditions and want to stomp all over what  _my_ ancestors have worked so hard to build. They have  _greatly_ enraged me to-day" He stands in front of her, timidly seated on the mattress, and glares down so intensely at her that she can see the word ' _Mudblood_ ' etched into his eyes.

"They are just trying to protect innocent victims from  _your friends_." Her voice starts off small but grows bolder by the word. She will not keep quiet – she knows he won't kill her; too much time has passed and he has missed too many opportunities. She wishes she was ignorant of his behaviour, for maybe then she would remain silent and obedient.

He will not kill her but the slap he gifts her with fills her eyes with stinging tears.  _Bloodyhell_! If only he would give her wand for a second, she would show him! He grabs her  _messybushyuntamed_ mane of a hair and pulls to the side, lowering his face to hers. She hates him, she  _hates_ him!

"You still dare talk back to me,  _girl_?"

"You still won't let me go or kill me, so you could say we are even." Said through gritted teeth and an irritated scalp, she gasps when he roughly lets go of her and starts pacing again. She drives him to the edge, with her resilient etiquette.

"You would rather be killed? – how  _pathetic_." He looks back at her, waiting for a challenging response.

"You think I want to rot here with  _you_?" He falters if for a millisecond. "I would rather be dead than see people like you and your dear Lord dictate how I live." She utters only the truth.

"What would you do for your freedom,  _girl_?" He's changed the subject – he isn't angry anymore; he is hungry. His presence grows and hers narrows. It has been leading to this all along; all these hours cooped up in this little room have been driving him to what is coming. She  _knows_ it and cold sweat overtakes her.

"I would fight you until only one of us is standing." She means with a wand – her own wand. She is only trying to divert his attention, to make him forget what his mind is already set upon.

"There is no benefit for me there. There is no personal gain for me in your proposal. You see, I am curious." His speech is pristine, she would even dare think practiced and mechanical. He's been thinking on this long and hard, and he'll stir the conversation in the way he wants. So she gives in. There is no point in wasting efforts on a lost cause.

"What do you want for it - for my freedom?" The smirk that comes out on his face is wicked and unsettling but very much expected. She does not move from her position on the mattress but she yearns to disappear. If only she could. None of this would matter if only she was a better witch – if only she could be smarter.

"I have already granted your freedom,  _girl_. This room is your freedom. Once you leave, both of us will perish at the hands of the Dark Lord and  _your friends_.  _Yes,_ your friends – I doubt they would be happy about me keeping you around. But you see, I want to see why it is worth keeping you alive – taking care of you even. I have been intrigued by you; I have decided to have you."

"What–" Her blood flow seems to stop, her eyes widen and she starts shaking with no restraint. It comes out of nowhere, in a sense, she's still processing his long speech, his drawn-out talking. She  _knew_ this was coming, expected it even, but a small glimmer of hope that she was wrong had been keeping her calm. Of course, Hermione is never wrong.  _Gods_ , what has she gotten herself into?! "No. No, you  _cannot_."

"I can and I  _will_. Now do make this easier on the both of us and be compliant,  _Miss Granger_. I believe I have already asked you that once, some time ago."

_Nononono_ , why is this happening? She mustn't let him – she must resist. But –  _ohheavens_ – he's already started to disrobe. It's happening too fast! It's happening, it's happening, it's  _happening_! She needs time to think. She backs to the wall, tries to merge into it but that would never work. The universe is set against her, she's found out recently. It does not take long for him to get his hands on her and pull her to the center – beneath him (as always).  _Ohgodohgodohgod_ , he is undressing her, taking off the robe he has provided. She wants to vomit but swallows it down. She must survive this! – like everything else. So she stops struggling and closes her eyes, awaiting Hell.

And, Merlin, save her, Hell swallows her whole.

He is in her,  _ohgodfuck_ , he is  _in_ her. She lets out a horrified wail, as the pain washes over her and dominates her senses. He is in her, he is out of her, and he is in again. It is a horrible cycle and she just wants him to  _gogogo_  and let her back to her vile corner. But she just feels him grip her sides more savagely and hurl himself at her more violently. She shuts her eyes, not wanting to have a lasting picture of this  _atrocity_ happening before her eyes, happening to her, happening  _in_  her.

"Open your eyes and look at me,  _girl_." Spoken through repulsive grunts and moans, she feels the tears departing from her eyes and down onto the floor. She opens her eyes though, because she doesn't want him to hit her once more and she doesn't want another  _Cruciatus_ taking hold of her body. She tries and tries and tries to push him off,  _anything but this_ , but he just dismisses her protests effortlessly and carries carelessly on.

He is so  _ugly_ to her in that moment, no matter his long hair and sophisticated face. He is no better than dirt to her in that second, he is lower than scum. And he dares reduce her to a  _Mudblood_?! The hypocrite! She grunts and grunts as his blows puncture her more and more. It's endless; he just won't get out of her. He goes on and on and on,  _inoutinoutinout_ , and it never ends.

She loses track of the time at some point; she checks-out and goes to a happier place in her mind. She goes back to a happier Hogwarts; she goes back to the Great Hall and devours the impeccably delicious food the wonderful kitchen-elves have worked hard to prepare. She goes back to the library and races through a book about the history of the magical world. She goes back to some class, Defense Against the Dark Arts most likely, and raises her hand importantly. She frowns as the teacher picks someone else, a certain Draco Malfoy, a ghost of her memories.  _Ohgodohmygod_ , he has the same shade of hair as  _him_ , he has those same eyes,  _ohgodpleaseno_.

And she's back to the present and  _he_ is right there, on top of her, still in her, and she lets out an angry scream. There is no strength left in her body but she needs to let the frustration out of her. But he clasps a  _filthy_ hand on top of her mouth and continues with this  _perverted_ invasion of her body. There is no point to his silencing her, they've glossed over it in one of their conversations – no one knows where she is and if they did, the silencing charms would prevent the noises to leak through. She presumes it is for himself, to stifle the uncomfortable feelings rising at her protests.

She is on the edge of consciousness and fading in and out, as her body gives up under all of this  _disgusting_  physical torture. It burns, it hurts, it doesn't even matter. She just wants sleep to take her away from this  _monster_ ; she'll even welcome death before she has to look at him violating her again. And finally as sleep claims her as its hostage, she is not fully convinced whether it's really his lips that connect to hers, or whether it's some cruel projection of her mind.

How did it come to this? She is in some safe-space her mind has procured, where no one has access, where she is free of intruders and only left to her own devices. Hermione is sure that she is going insane. She hasn't breathed in fresh air for so long now that her brain is defying her – she hasn't talked to anyone but  _him_  since he forced that  _stupidbloody_ potion down her throat (even though she poured it on her own). And now this madness has befallen the young witch – Lucius Malfoy has sullied her. But most of all, Lucius Malfoy has sullied himself. It is her one salvation.


	5. Liberation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Used some different techniques for this chapter - hopefully the end product is good. Please let me know what you think! Either way, this story is close to its end now, so get ready. Also, sorry for the update delay - engineering school and all (science will quite literally be the death of me) takes its toll. Much love, MrsRobot!

**Chapter 5 – Liberation**

(In Flames, 2011,  _Sounds of a Playground Fading_ )

It does not happen only once. Lucius Malfoy comes to her more often than not now and when he comes, he has her. What they do –  _no_ , what he does – it is not beautiful and it is not refined. Everything about it – this  _predicament_ – is out of character for him. It is not calculated, it is not dignified – it's just pure instinct.

When she watches him grunt and moan above her (he is always above her), laughter comes to her. She does not suppress it any longer – she is not afraid of  _him_ nearly enough to guard her reactions. But it is just  _so funny_ how he can't go for long without coming back to her, surrendering to her in some ways, and violating her in others.  _Is this what power feels like?_ Having such a profound effect on someone's being that they always return for more – she has become the addiction, the narcotic. Yet even with all this newfound authority, he still firmly holds the key to her freedom – figuratively,  _of course_ , for there is no door to this room.

Hermione is not really sure what freedom means at this point. She cannot say she is absolutely miserable. Well, maybe the first time.  _Merlin_ , she'd wanted to hack his head off and feed it to those  _goddamnedbloody_ peacocks he never forgets to mention in between their  _sessions_. She had been so angry, embarrassed, disgusted and all of the feelings that come along with such an  _experience_  – she'd gone through it all. But when he returned for her a second, third, fourth and countless times, she'd tried to forget those dreadful melancholy feelings. She  _enjoys_ it – when he slides into her, when he starts moving, when he releases himself. It repulses her – how she feels – in the hours after but she has no desire to suffer any longer, to feel any pain. Instead, she decides to embrace the pleasure and make the best of it – whatever the hell that means. There is no deception about how she feels about  _him_  – what has happened can never be rectified, but she doesn't want to be the one to cry about it. It happened; it is time to move on.

They don't talk much. It is mostly him that does it – she doesn't like how meek her voice sounds set against his powerful one, so she keeps quiet most times. His speech is slow, drawn out and meticulously thought out before it leaves his lips. She doesn't have that type of a filter, so keeping silent is what she prefers.

He is here now – just arrived, actually. He usually brings the food with him but there is none this time. She is reading some ancient tome on why Muggles have always been a threat to pure-blooded wizards (it is plucked from his collection,  _of course_ ) when he appears before her. She never knows when he will show up, so she keeps aware at all times. She cannot say she could be startled any longer but staying alert is to her own advantage. It allows her to prepare for whatever pitfall is coming her way.

The look on his face is furious – not at her, she hopes – his eyes are blazing and jaw clenching maniacally. She looks up briefly and then back to the text but concentration is no longer possible. She can  _feel_ his magic electrifying the air, causing her hair to become static and even more unruly. She looks back up at him, a questioning look in her eyes but he remains silent. The only sounds are of his hands undoing his robes and baring himself to her.  _He is angry_ , she  _hates_ it when he is angry.

When he comes to her, propped up against some old pillow on her  _lovely_ mattress, he takes the book from her hands and puts in on the ground next to them. When he grabs her arms and makes his intentions clear, he is not aggressive, however. He hasn't been, as of late. They have some  _stupidnonsensical_ wordless agreement that if neither is aggressive, then things go smoother for the both of them. Pleasure comes faster that way, so she stays compliant (as much as possible). When he lifts her robes (they are provided by him,  _naturally_ ) off her and plants his face in her hair, he takes a lion's breath and forgets about the rage. She supposes that is why he is here, with her – to forget about whatever has happened in his normal life.  _How pathetic_  – a grown man finding his solace in a schoolgirl.  _How predictable_.

The usual happens; nothing out of the ordinary impresses her enough to remember it distinctly afterwards. Though, she supposes, this thought itself will be memorable at some point down the line. He doesn't last long, not long enough to satisfy her either way; she scowls at him boldly and wordlessly pleads for him to finish with her – to help her come to her own release. He does, in more ways than one, and when they are done, he lays beside her on the mattress. The air around them remains tranquil and undisturbed by old grudges.

Lucius Malfoy more often than not leaves as quickly as possible after their times together ( _fucking each other_ , is what she means). Now settled on the  _bloodyold_ mattress, with her blanket covering him, Lucius Malfoy does not appear as if he wants to ever move from this spot, until the end of time. She supposes once more, in her mind only, that to him this is a form of a sanctuary – an escape from the world, from his Dark Lord and from his family. No one knows about her being here, she is not even sure if anyone knows about this place (whatever and wherever it might be). It scares her thinking that if Lucius Malfoy is to perish somewhere in the vast outside, she would slowly die and rot in here all by herself. Hopefully, his house-elf would not forget about her.

Today, Hermione is curious. Her voice feels a bit stronger – frankly, she's been practicing by herself. She yearns for a conversation (even if it is with  _him_ ), books no longer satiating her social needs.  _Gods_ , she hasn't had a conversation in  _ages_  and she  _bloody_ loves to ramble on.

Propping herself by the elbows, she looks down on him (for the first time) on the right and readies herself to utter some syllables. It takes her longer than she wishes and Lucius Malfoy raises one pale eyebrow at her inner struggle.  _Merlin_ , if only she could slap him – it would be  _infinitely_ satisfying. She lets go of her insecurities then and speaks to him. Gratifying hardly begins to describe the feeling that pumps through her veins at that moment.

"Why were you angry?"

"Why do you care,  _girl_?"

"Stop calling me a girl! I am  _not_ a girl,  _Lucius Malfoy_."

"I believe you are a pompous little tart, if anything else. But, all-right, fine –  _Hermione_ –  _Miss Granger_ , you seem to be incessantly interested in my personal affairs?"

"What else is there to do in this  _stupid_ box of a room?"

"Would you like me to expand your quarters?"

"Expand my quarters? No,  _Lucius_ , I would like to go outside and look at the sun, and run through the grass, and swim in the ocean."

"All in good time,  _Hermione_. You must be patient with me – none of this is easy. My anger only furthers my problems – do you still want to quibble about it, why I am angered?"

"Yes; do tell me."

"Because you're supposed to be dead, my darling little  _girl_. Only, I never killed you and now someone has found out all about it."

" _What_? What do you mean?"

"My dear wife,  _of course_  – Narcissa – truly never could keep her nosy self from my personal business–"

"She is your wife!"

"Do shut up, little one – it is in your personal interest that you are kept well-hidden and protected from the outside world."

"Yours as well, clearly."

"Either way, Narcissa found out, through her meddling ways, that I was keeping you here and decided it a fine night for questioning me about my reasoning. Undeniably, I did not tell her what I do with you here, as you will well understand why, but she came up with her own conclusions."

"She must have guessed right, seeing the state you were in."

" _Do_ keep quiet,  _Hermione_  – you  _are_ right, she did guess eventually. Naturally, she threatened to come and kill you, or tell the Dark Lord that I have kept you alive all this time–"

"What do you mean?"

"I see you have no qualms interrupting me."

"Just tell me what you meant!"

" _All-right!_  – after administering the  _Veritaserum_ or you giving me the information we needed, I was meant to dispose of you – permanently. I did, in a way – I cleaned out the dungeon and lied that I'd killed you. Thankfully, the Dark Lord was more than pleased with the intelligence you provided that he did not monitor my wand for the last spells it had dispatched. Otherwise, both of us would be gone by now."

"But why did you not kill me? It was a death sentence to keep me alive, no?"

"At first, it was for leverage – personal leverage. If Potter and the rest of your friends were to hurt me or my family, I would trade you in."

"And then?"

"Well, I thought it rather intriguing how you never spilled anything under pressure. It was admirable, really. Most usually break after a few days – even the best of wizards! That a  _Mudblood_ would resist – well, it certainly got me thinking."

"It took  _that_ to get you thinking?! Well, maybe you should have kidnapped and tortured me sooner!"

"Calm down,  _Hermione_. It takes exposure to a problem to inspire change. Unfortunately, I seem to be the only one affected – Bella and the others have only gotten worse."

"Can't you stop them? Or do anything, really?"

"Not if I wish to remain alive, alongside my family."

"So you're just going to do  _nothing_?!"

"Why should I do anything? I have what I wanted and to me the problem is resolved."

"How is it in any way resolved? Countless muggle-borns are being killed and tortured and you say  _the problem is resolved_?!"

"The only  _Mudblood_ I care about is here and, as far as I know, safe, therefore the problem is solved."

"Am I supposed to be flattered that you  _care_ about me, while allowing for others to be murdered daily?"

"Do you think it easy? The Dark Lord is merciless – even the slightest hesitation on my part could bring devastation to my family and I am not willing to risk that."

"No one begged you to become a  _bloody Death Eater_!"

"I did not have much choice and, back then, I believed in all he said. There was no hesitation back then."

"And now?"

"Now it is more complicated. It has all changed so fast – what I thought once true seems false and vain. It has made me uncomfortable and it will not be long before someone notices."

"Why don't you contact the Order? They will surely help you."

"The  _Order_? They would murder me before ever thinking of  _helping_ me. Do not tell me you are that naïve,  _little girl_."

"I could talk to them–"

"Nothing would change. I doubt they would value your word too much after everything you have given us."

"It was  _not_ by choice!"

"I believe they do not know that. Regardless, the Order would never aid someone like me. I scarcely think they would believe me in the first place."

"What are you going to do then?"

"I can't  _do_ anything. I can only pray no one finds out about this  _development_."

"What about Narcissa?"

"I believe I can deal with my own wife and keep her quiet."

"And if she doesn't?"

"She  _will_!"

"All-right!  _Fine_! So what happens now?"

"Nothing; we carry on like this."

"Like this? What if I don't want to?"

"You're forgetting your place. Do not presume to tell me you are dissatisfied! When you're squealing beneath me, you seem to be singing a different tune."

"I was only just asking. Will you let me go outside at some point?"

"When I'm assured it is safe and you promise that you won't flee."

"I can't promise you such a thing – both of us know that."

"Then you must wait a bit longer, my little one."

That night, he sleeps beside her and at some strange hour of the night (she's guessing it is night), he gets all tangled up and personal with her. It brings warmth, this new shift, more so than her blankets and sheets. She doesn't resist and doesn't disentangle herself from  _him_  because she is afraid his growing affection will be stalled – that is if she does something to oppose his advances. She tries to stay calm and not shove him away, really, she does! She obeys her own mind most diligently, but the strange thoughts in her mind keep her from falling asleep for a long time. She stays planted in the same position, unable to move, shocked by her own revelation. When sleep finally claims her from  _his_  greedy hands, a single thought vexes her all throughout her slumber. Even though she is not conscious and even though peculiar dreams take over her mind, the thought remains stationery.

Lucius Malfoy is sleeping serenely beside her and in a most willing matter, his hand is draped over her waist, and his legs are artfully tangled with hers. Lucius Malfoy has surrendered himself to her, at last.


	6. Abnegation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are then - the end! It has been a while, I do realise, but there were two reasons for that: (1) I was having major writer's block and could not finalise an ending/could not decide how to finish the story and (2) chemistry has quite literally been sucking up all my free hours (this must be karma for me bragging that I don't ever have to take English or History courses ever again, though it is a fun science if you have the time for it). Either way, I am satisfied with the ending, hope you are too! Let me know, and thank you for sticking all the way to the end. Much love, MrsRobot.
> 
> PS. Coming up next will be a Viktor Krum short-story for those of you interested.

**Chapter 6 – Abnegation**

(In Flames, 2008,  _A Sense of Purpose_ )

When they come, and they come in crowds, she is scared. They just appear inside of  _her_ space and invade all she has gotten used to. They besmirch all she has held dear in the past however-long-she-has-been-here and never ask her whether it is okay to do so. She yells at them but her (now stronger) voice is drowned out by the loudness of their invasion. She hates them, she  _hates_ them! Lucius is here somewhere too, and she is scared for him as well – scared that someone would harm him without her permission.  _Merlin_ , why is this happening all of a sudden? She  _hates_ surprises!

They take her all too gently and pluck her away from  _her room_  without consent. She hates them, she  _hates_ them! They bring her into the Burrow too quickly and lay her on someone's too-soft bed. There are too many of them here – she isn't used to so many people anymore. She keeps it in for as long as she can but when their frantic questions pour all over her, she cannot take it any longer. Control leaves her and she breaks down in front of them. Piece by piece, she is coming undone.

"Leave me  _alone_!" She screams it unkindly and,  _thankthegods_ , they all shut up at once. Eventually (it takes them far too long), all of them leave when she utters not a vowel more, and only two remain beside her.

Once, long ago, she would have been ecstatic to glance upon their faces again – Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Green and blue eyes stare unashamedly at her – probing, stabbing, searching. She doesn't crack – she never has and never will. Her friends are petty amateurs in comparison to the highly-skilled dark wizards she has faced. It is almost laughable. They cannot and will not break her; she will not let them.

"Hermion–"

"What have you done with  _him_?"

"Only what he deserves!" Red hair flaming all around him, Ronald Weasley is passionate about this, about hurting  _him_. She supposes it is meant for her, to make her feel better and avenge what she has gone through. It only makes her angrier. No one asks her whether she has a plan of avenging; no one asks her if they happened to interrupt and destroy it.

"You can't kill him! You  _cannot_!" Tears are appearing left and right and,  _ohgodohgod_ , they are falling from her eyes. She isn't as strong as she should be; she scowls at her own self. She could've done it – all by herself! – why did they have to interfere so suddenly?! She curses and curses Narcissa Malfoy, for there is no other suspect for the leaking of her location.

"We won't – not yet anyway. Malfoy has a lot of information we need. Don't worry, he won't be able to get to you – the strongest wards have been placed all around to restrain him." She ignores the strong feeling to hurl herself at her own friends (at least, that is what she used to call them in the past), and feigns calmness and serenity. Hermione is sure the two boys can see right through her subdued façade but the miniscule hope that they cannot figure out the exact reason for this farce remains with her.

"Where is he? Tell me." She has become like  _him_ now – her voice is controlled and curt; there is no shaking or cracking – only poise and confidence.

And so they do. She listens to the smallest of details and nods her head absent-mindedly. She tries her hardest to be kind and understanding of their anger and unfriendliness, if only for the good old times. They don't leave her alone for a long while, and she grows weary as each minute weighs heavier. She makes a show of obvious fatigue at some point or another, and only then do they take their exit from her new bedroom. Ronald Weasley looks at her for a long time, even caressing her cheek gently before leaving her in peace. Hermione no longer remembers the feelings she once harboured for the boy. She feels indifferent to his touch. She feels nostalgic for the past and how simple it had been, how innocent and untainted.

Later in the night (she has a window now, she can see the time pass) when it finally becomes silent and everyone has retreated to their rooms, she is ready to get up and flee. She moves the covers away from herself and places trembling feet onto the ground. She's shivering with anticipation. She goes all around the room looking for the robe she had been wearing before the raid – the one Lucius had given her.  _Ohgodohgod_ , they haven't destroyed it, have they? She  _can't_ find it! They've put some sleeping robes on her and left muggle clothes on some unfitting chair. She gets closer to them, inspects them from up close, and only after a few minutes recognises them as her own.

They are the clothes of some old Hermione she no longer knows. She glowers at the fabric in her hands – no longer fitting her taste. She puts the clothes on either way; she needs to keep warm. Looking down on herself, she doesn't like what she sees but there's nothing she can do at the moment (powerless, yet again). Ignoring her discomfort, she goes up to the nightstand beside her bed and looks down onto the object placed there with curiosity and apprehension. Wrapping her fingers around it, Hermione gasps as she feels the magic flowing beneath her skin, stronger than it has been in a long time. It is almost painful, this sudden change but she grips the wand as hard as she can and turns to leave. There is no going back now. There is only one way to salvation.

When she exits the room, she puts up wards of her own, to keep curious eyes away from the empty bed. She knows, oh, she  _knows_  that Ronald Weasley will come to check on her at some point. It is sweet, it really is, but she can't afford to dwell on what once might have been. It is beyond time to move onto the present and future. She recalls spells lodged deep into her mind, and almost jumps from delight when she sees them flowing out from her wand. It is a sight to behold – Hermione Granger casting spells once more! The world gasps alongside her.

It doesn't take her long to find him (Lucius, of course). She knows this place, the Burrow; even though the memories are faded in her mind, she remembers her way around it. It is intuition, really, more than anything else. Breaking the wards around him, without causing alarm, takes her a bit longer. She would've been faster in the past but her mind is rusty from disuse and recalling incantations is but a slow process. But when she turns the gears in her head, as fast as she can, grinding and grinding, her mind lights up and she remembers. It doesn't come all at once, yet when one spell returns to her, the rest aren't too overdue to follow.

She breaks through the last protective spell and enters the small room with no hesitations. Hermione is desperate to see if they have killed him – they have not, as Harry Potter has informed her. She releases some strange breath of relief. Lucius is sprawled on the floor and what a sight! He looks so miserable, cooped up uncomfortably and stiff to the bone – his hair dirty and so un-like him. The laugh she lets out startles him, and then she sees his eyes – they are bloodshot and scared. This is not the Lucius she has come to know.

"What a sight you are!"

He mumbles some words that do not reach her ears. She thought she would hate it – seeing him captured and rendered powerless, seeing her own plans for him soiled and discarded without a thought, but she cannot say satisfaction does not flow through her veins at this sight. The dark angel – the Devil that has sullied her over and over, the man who took from her what was not for giving now at her absolute mercy.

"Funny, how our positions have so utterly changed. Don't you agree,  _Lucius_? Isn't it amusing?"

She is the one who talks now, the one who commands the situation. Lucius Malfoy is not one to hesitate speaking, yet his opinions matter not. Hermione isn't sure whether he is pleading or cursing, or even talking; Hermione Granger no longer cares what he has to say to her. She only yearns to see him hurt and flinch like she has, under his supervision. Her wand is twitching in her hand, itching to fire a dirty curse at this man but she must play this game like he has. She must be calm, composed, and detached like he has been all along. She  _must_!

"Won't it be brilliant fun if I were to call the Order, and tell them to torture you into oblivion?"

The disbelieving look in his eyes angers her but she restrains from any rash actions, just like he would. It is not often that Hermione Granger takes to praising herself and basking in self-glorification, yet now she feels like the most ingenious woman alive. She has withstood torture from the vilest of wizards, and yet now she looks down upon one – victorious.

It starts out as a smirk, a tiny little thing in the corner of her mouth, then transforms into the loudest laugh she's ever had. It is but the first time she laughs in his presence, and it will be the last. Confidence oozes from her posture, from her stance, from within; confidence that this fight has been won, that her war against He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and his minions has reached its termination point. It is over, she is safe with her tormentor captured before her eyes. Hermione must learn to relax, to let go of what has come to pass, and what has not. Yes, her plans  _were_  disregarded most rudely but the endpoint is what matters most. The endpoint has been met, now she must move of with what remains of her life. Only one question remains then, what  _does_ remain from Hermione Granger's life; has she truly found salvation? She thinks _yesyesyes_ , she has! She is but a free witch as of today.

Only, Lucius begs to disagree, Lucius refuses to be ignored and bounded. Many might refer to him as a traitor, a bigot, an extremist, but none will deny that Lucius Malfoy possesses wit and cunning worthy of much praise. Playing games, weaving people around his poisonous fingers – it is what Lucius takes pleasure in. Might be you don't understand it, might be you do, but he sees naught wrong with stretching people's feelings to their boundaries. When Lucius decided to start grooming the  _Mudblood_ , he knew it would be no quick ordeal. He knew what little girls like her wanted to see – a glimpse of humanity, compassion, even pity – a rose-coloured lens covering the world. Granted, Hermione Granger did possess notable bravery, resilience, and knowledge, only she had chosen the wrong side (she never did have a choice either way, what with her blood).

Lucius Malfoy thinks of himself as a man of himself and himself only. Serving the Dark Lord is what he might call a pastime, a hobby, a purpose, of a sort. Marrying a Black is what he would call a strategic move – both for himself and for the reassurance that his aristocratic blood would not be mixed with mud. Courting the  _Mudblood_  is what he might call a necessary step towards a grander goal, with gratis pleasure. He does all of these things to keep himself occupied and away from his own brooding thoughts and tendencies.

So when the silly girl does come to him, slyly hidden beneath wards meant to keep him in one place, he feels naught but accomplishment. For he  _has_  succeeded – she has come for him; whether it is to kill him or let him go, it matters little. He plays his part well and when she is at the top of her high, thinking him defeated, she loses in her own game.

Perhaps she may have held a chance against him, somewhere in the past, but he has weakened her just for this precise moment. He has held her long enough to make sure she is still proficient in the ways of magic, yet stranded in its ancient practices and rituals.

Of course, when he lunges at her (no wand, Potter has  _kindly_  taken his without permission), in prime strength with no hesitations, she loses the fight all too quickly. She  _is_ but a small girl, after all. As her high wears off and the reality starts sinking in, her face loses colour. It loses colour as she realises that they have all fallen into his trap. It loses colour as she realises that she has put the whole Order under danger, and that the Death Eaters will be here soon, with no warning to her friends. It loses colour as she realises how incredibly gullible and _stupidstupidstupid_ she has been. It loses colour as soon as the  _Avada Kedavra_ hits her straight in the heart.

For she has danced with the Devil, and the Devil only serves one god – Death.


End file.
